Christmas With a Vampire

by Merline Lovelace

  She waited, watched for some sign the dark void she knew was Drystan planned to approach, to knock on the door. But he didn’t move, not even when a truck swerved on an icy patch, came within inches of bumping onto the curb where he waited. He just stood there like a statue, unmoving…uncaring.

  The curtain tumbled from the rod above Aimee’s head, torn down by the force of her grip.

  “Aimee? Are you all right?” Maureen again, a tumbler of amber liquid in her hand. She’d been watching Aimee all night, pacing past the door to the living room under one pretense or another. “Oh, the curtains.” Maureen hurried into the room, slid her glass onto a walnut side table and bent to pluck a corner of the heavy drapery off the floor. “What happened?”

  Her gaze back on the dark spot she knew was Drystan, Aimee didn’t reply.

  Maureen picked up the fallen curtain and peered out the window. “Is someone out there? Should I call the police?”

  Forcing a laugh, Aimee took one end of the curtain and began folding it. “No, I was just watching the snow. I thought I saw an animal moving around out there. Maybe it was Santa!” She smiled and hoped her joke would take Maureen’s mind off calling the police.

  “Oh, it was probably that dog you brought here.” Maureen patted the curtain, which now hung folded from her arm. “I let her out. That’s okay, isn’t it?” Doubt flitted behind the older woman’s eyes. “I’ve never had a dog. She won’t run off, will she?”

  This time the smile on Aimee’s lips was real. Maureen was falling for Garbo. The little creature might be better at daimon skills than Aimee.

  “Maybe I should go look for her.” Maureen started to turn. Aimee jumped forward and grabbed her arm.

  “No.”

  At the short ness of Aimee’s tone, Maureen frowned.

  Aimee inhaled, relaxed. “You’re ready for bed. If she doesn’t come back soon, I’ll go look for her.”

  After a few seconds more of reassurance from Aimee, Maureen left. Aimee turned back to the window and Drystan. With the curtain down, the only thing shielding her were the ivory sheers. And with the tree lit behind her and his vampire vision, he could surely see her standing here, had watched her exchange with Maureen.

  Maureen. Aimee had panicked when the woman had mentioned going out into the snow…out where Drystan waited. Aimee had hoped Drystan would come here, and by being here, be reminded of his human past, find something inside himself that let him forgive the Myhres and accept himself. But he hadn’t. He was still a dark void of pain, nowhere near healed.

  Would he have hurt his adopted mother? Aimee didn’t think so, but she hadn’t thought Kevin would turn the gun on himself, either.

  Something moved in the darkness, a flash of white pelting across the ground. Aimee shoved aside the sheers and pressed her hands to the glass. Garbo. The little dog was in the front yard, heading for the street, heading for Drystan.

  A CHILL CLAWED its way over Drystan’s body, gnawed at what was left of his spirit. Aimee was watching him from inside the Myhres’, but had made no move to ac knowledge him. She’d stood for minutes talking with Maureen. An icy rod had shot through Drystan’s center when he’d seen the woman whom he had once thought loved him or at least cared about him.

  Seeing her now next to Aimee made this all the more real, Aimee’s rejection all the more hurtful. Anger vibrated through Drystan’s body. How he wished the Myhre matriarch would step past that heavy wooden door, out into the night. He had never faced her, never made her face what she had done to him. Maybe it was time. Maybe her terror when she saw him would be reward enough.

  His hands balled into fists at his sides, his fingers curling so tightly into them selves his knuckles popped.

  Liar. He clenched his jaw, forced his eyes away from the window. He was lying to himself. He didn’t want Maureen Myhre to come out her door, didn’t want to face her. If he had wanted that, he could have done it ten years ago—easily wreaked his revenge as soon as he arose, killed her. But he hadn’t…because some where deep inside, he knew she had been right, that he was nothing but a white-trash boy unworthy of saving, unworthy of love. His mother had been an addict. One of his only memories of her was holding her stash when the police raided the bar where she “worked.” He’d given it back to her as soon as they left—known even at that young age what it did to her, but helped her. Then when he got old enough, he’d gone down the same path.

  Since that last night, one question had never stopped swirling through Drystan’s mind.

  If Drystan hadn’t existed, if Ben had never met him, would the golden boy have become involved with drugs? Or was it, like Maureen claimed, Drystan’s fault?

  Drystan cursed his weakness, forced the questions back into the cranny where he kept them hidden. Maureen was at fault. He couldn’t forget that. If she had shown him real love, he wouldn’t have done what he did, and Ben wouldn’t have had Drystan’s condemnable example to follow.

  He should stop with the pretense, face her…kill her. His face contorted, his beguilement dropped. If anyone had stood near they would have seen the monster that he normally kept hidden from him self, everyone. Lips pulled back, fangs obvious, his face changed when in such a rage. He knew it, hated it. The trans formation, ease of it, was undeniable proof of the demon that lived inside him—that had since birth. But tonight he would embrace him, and finally let this demon Drystan do what people like Maureen would expect.

  A siren sounded in the distance, an accident somewhere. The demon Drystan embraced the sound. It was an ugly night—matching his mood. Soon more sirens would be called, here, and Maureen would get the news coverage she craved—too bad she wouldn’t be alive to enjoy it. He turned back toward the house, one foot moving out, ready to take the first step.

  But Maureen was gone. Aimee stood alone in the window. Her body angled to the side, her face closer to the glass.

  She was searching the darkness for something. Even under the control of his devil, Drystan’s heart caught, stalled his steps. Just as quickly he realized her gaze wasn’t on him, it was closer to the house, scanning the front yard. His gaze followed the line of hers.

  A small white form zigzagged across the lawn, almost in visible against the backdrop of snow. Drystan stepped back, unsure what he saw. Then a tiny yelp broke through the night and he was hit from the side by twenty pounds of wiggling, damp dog.

  AIMEE’S FINGERS FLATTENED against the glass. Garbo had run into Drystan, stood dancing on her legs now, begging him to pick her up—but Drystan had changed. Sometime in the last few minutes while Aimee had been focused on Maureen, then Garbo, Drystan had changed. The darkness that lived inside him had grown, morphed into something monstrous, carnivorous, devouring every speck of goodness and humanity that was left inside her vampire lover. He practically glowed with malevolence, like a pressure cooker heated past its limits, ready to explode.

  His dark figure stooped, picked up the tiny white dog. Aimee heard a yelp. She shoved her body away from the glass with enough force that the seal holding the pane popped, then hurried toward the door, tripping over her own feet.

  If he hurt the little dog, it would be Aimee’s fault for coming here, for praying he would follow her, finally face his past.

  If he hurt Garbo, another piece of Aimee would die, and worst of all, so would the little piece of hope that still struggled to survive inside Drystan.

  CHAPTER NINE

  DRYSTAN HELD THE squirming creature in his arms, his mind fighting to make sense of what was happening. The demon inside him said to toss the animal aside, or use it, drain it like other vampires did when des per ate for blood—to send a message to whoever owned the animal that the streets weren’t safe at night, that nowhere was safe. They should hide, cower inside their mansions. The money and love they’d poured into their little pet couldn’t protect it.

  He grabbed the animal by the scruff of the neck, pulled its face up to his, snarled. Black eyes glistened back at him, confused.

  Dryst
an lifted his lip, ready to snarl again, and the creature whimpered, the first signs of fear appearing in its eyes. Doubt slivered through Drystan. The hand holding the animal began to shake; the dog began to shake, too. And suddenly he saw what he was doing, saw Garbo staring back at him, quivering, her body curling into itself.

  Drystan’s nostrils flared. He pulled the tiny dog to his chest, cradled her there and murmured reassuring noises in her ear. She whimpered again, but softer, and slowly her struggling ceased. Still he could feel her tiny heart beating hard and fast against his chest.

  What was happening to him? Where was his control? He’d spent the ten years since his rising focused, never allowing himself to get too angry or happy, building a life filled with apathy. Now in the past three days his moods had swung maniacally. He didn’t know himself, was afraid of which Drystan would appear next.

  A column of light split the night, grew wider. He blinked, realized it came from the Myhre house. Aimee stepped onto the front porch. Her feet were bare, her arms wrapped around her. The warmth of her called to Drystan as strongly as it had the night before, stronger, but he dropped his head, stroked the little dog in his arms. “She’s looking for you,” he whispered. “Not me. She doesn’t want to see me, and I can’t see her…not now.” Maybe never.

  Aimee took a step toward the snow-covered walk, but stopped as he bent, placed Garbo on the ground. The little dog stood for a second, her neck twisting back and forth as if unsure what to do.

  “Go.” Drystan gave her a nudge, then pulled his beguilement around him and disappeared into the darkness.

  THE NEXT DAY was the eve of Aimee’s wedding—the day before Christmas Eve. She woke to Garbo snuffling at her face, nudging Aimee with her nose. The dog was safe. Drystan had lowered her to the ground last night, then disappeared, faded until Aimee couldn’t discern his dark form from the night around him.

  She was getting married in less than two days and all she could think of was Drystan. However right or wrong it was, she wanted to be with him.

  A failure as a daimon and a complete mess as a human. What was she going to do?

  She sat on the edge of the bed, one hand scratching Garbo’s head, the other resting on the satin comforter. She ran the pads of her fingers over the smooth material—so different from the plain cot ton cover that she had draped over Drystan.

  She couldn’t save Drystan. She knew that, had seen how close he’d come last night to sinking into a darkness from which he would never return—but she couldn’t walk away, either. Despite the short amount of time she’d known him and all the things she didn’t know about him—she loved him.

  So what did she do? She couldn’t marry Ben, she realized that now—probably would have realized it even if Drystan hadn’t come into her life. She didn’t love him and he didn’t love her. By letting him marry her for all the wrong reasons she would be cheating him out of the life he could have, the love he could find.

  But what did that mean for her? She couldn’t save Drystan, but couldn’t be with him the way he was, either.

  “I’ve kind of made a mess of things, haven’t I?” she asked the dog, who stared up at her with a sad kind of wisdom. “Drystan needs to face his past, and his future. It’s the only way he’ll be whole.” The dog shoved her nose into Aimee’s hand, flipped it. Aimee started to stroke her back, but the dog stood, shook, then plopped down beside Aimee, her gaze steady, encouraging.

  Aimee’s hand dropped to her lap; she started to stand, but her knees bent beneath her. “I’ve made a mess of things. No one can fix it for him. He has to face his past and accept who he is,” she mum bled the words. The dog stayed in place, intent. With a light laugh, Aimee looked up, stared at Garbo. “Maybe you are a daimon.”

  Then she walked to the closet and began pulling on her clothes. She had a lot to do in very little time.

  DRYSTAN TAPPED HIS fingers against his glass. He was the only occupant of the busy bar’s patio. He’d come here tonight thinking he’d relieve the feelings churning inside him by targeting some coed or bored female executive, luring her into one of the bar’s many dark crannies, enjoying her blood, her hands on his body.

  But despite the many curves that had brushed up against him, hands that had flickered over his arm, eyes that had caught his over a lifted glass, his body had been unmoved, his hunger un stirred.

  He didn’t want these women—not for sex or blood. He didn’t want anything right now except Aimee. She had become an obsession—an even greater one than revenging himself on the Myhres.

  He took another sip of whiskey. It rolled down his throat, cold and taste less. He gripped the glass, squeezed until he knew it was within seconds of cracking. Even a twenty-one-year-old bourbon couldn’t warm him anymore.

  A door opened behind him; music and the smell of cigarettes spilled out. Public smoking was illegal here, but like so many things, like Drystan escorting the occasional guest into a dark corner, the owner ignored it. Drystan set down the glass, followed the swaying steps of a group of twentysomethings with his eyes, but he didn’t move to stand—had no interest. He picked up the glass, slammed it against the metal tabletop, felt it shatter in his hand. He shoved his palm into the fragments, grinding them into smaller pieces, dust. The tiny shards fell onto the ground, spark ling in the bit of light that leaked from the bar, but Drystan’s palm was barely touched, just little black bubbles of blood, like old oil. As he watched, the skin underneath healed. Even the physical pain was fleeting. How could his body feel pain when his spirit was so glutted with it?

  He stood then, not sure where he would go, what he would do, only knowing he was tired of spending every night alone with only the occasional pretense of close ness with another living being. As he dusted the last of the glass from his palm, pushed the chair back against the table, he saw her—Aimee standing under the streetlight, her white coat reflecting the light, her hair forming a halo around her face.

  And damn his weakness, his heart leaped and his hands began to shake.

  HIS PAIN WAS thick tonight, darker than Aimee had seen it, but thank fully the monstrous cloud she’d seen engulf Drystan last night was missing. Guessing he frequented the same place night after night, places where the clientele knew vampires were real, she’d gone first to the restaurant where they’d had dinner. A waiter had suggested this bar. He’d looked at her sideways, and she’d known he thought she was some kind of groupie, a vamp tramp as she’d heard them called. She’d let him think what he liked. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but finding Drystan, trying one last time to get him to let go of the hate, pain and resentment of his past. It was the only thing that would save him, the only way they could be together.

  Drystan hesitated, his hand opening and closing as if checking his grip. She pulled her lower lip into her mouth, bit down and waited. She had nothing to say, not yet. If he wouldn’t come to her, wouldn’t give that much, then her cause was lost, Drystan was lost.

  DRYSTAN COULDN’T BELIEVE she was there. He blinked, waited to see if his eyes were fooling him, if she was some kind of vision, a mix of the swirling snow and the three glasses of bourbon he’d consumed tonight. But Aimee didn’t disappear, didn’t turn away. Instead she leaned forward as if about to approach, then stopped herself, her lip disappearing into her mouth.

  Her eyes were huge, her arms wrapped around her body. She was unsure, afraid. Just like he was.

  Without letting his mind form another thought, he shoved the table out of his way and strode off the patio, into the circle of light where she stood.

  Once close to her, he didn’t know what to say and he felt foolish. “You left your apartment.”

  She nodded. “I had to.”

  It wasn’t an answer, not to the unasked question that hung between them, but for now Drystan let it lie. Did she remember everything that had happened between them, their love making? Had it been as real for her as it felt to him? “I was looking for you.”

  She didn’t reply, kept her hands o
n her arms.

  “For the article,” he added, suddenly afraid he’d misread everything, that what he’d felt the previous night hadn’t been real, that without meaning to he’d spelled her into wanting him, into making love. He had played with her head only a little earlier. That could have left her weak, easy to sway to desires he was too weak to keep hidden.

  She curled her fingers around the lapels of his coat, rose on her tiptoes, then pressed her lips to his, and all questions, all thoughts evaporated from Drystan’s mind. His hands found her waist and he let himself relax, believe…again.

  But then, with no explanation, she stepped away. Her hands stayed on his chest, but her body was an arm’s length away. He could feel the cool air where she had been. She smoothed his coat, stared at the button in the middle of his chest, then put another step between them, turned on the ball of her foot and walked away.

  Drystan stared after her…stupidly…no words coming to his mind. She couldn’t be leaving, couldn’t be going back to the Myhres’. She had found him, searched him out, hadn’t even taken the time to explain…to let him know what she knew or had figured out.

  She was leaving him, like his father, his mother…the Myhres. Like everyone he had ever dared trust.

  Anger bubbled inside him. He wouldn’t let it happen—not this time. She had to come with him. Had to choose him. He could make her. He would make her.

  AIMEE COULD FEEL Drystan approaching—a pulse of angry energy pounding closer and closer. She sighed, her shoulders curving under the weight of what this meant.

  He hadn’t let go of the anger inside him, not yet. Couldn’t come to her with just love, instead let anger and resentment drive him.

  How far would he let it take him? She slowed her steps until she could sense him right behind her.

  “Aimee.” He stepped in front of her. She let her body jerk as if surprised by his appearance. “You need to come with me. You want to come with me.”